


Pyrrhic

by blanketed_in_stars



Series: 52 Weeks of Wolfstar [17]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1981, Angst, Baby Harry, Fall of Voldemort, First War with Voldemort, Gen, Godric's Hollow, M/M, Marauders' Era, Ministry of Magic, October 31 1981, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:49:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3844663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blanketed_in_stars/pseuds/blanketed_in_stars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And when I saw their house, destroyed, and their bodies… I realized what Peter must’ve done… what I'd done…"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pyrrhic

**Author's Note:**

> Week 17

"Peter?" The door glides inward, and Sirius flicks on the light with his wand. "It's only eleven," he says. "I hope you're not in bed already." There's no reply. "Come on," he says, going into the bedroom, "you can't be that t—" He stops short at the sight of the empty bed, looking cold and unused in the dark room. "Peter?"

He goes back out, checks the kitchen and bathroom. In a flat this small, he already knows he's alone, but it seems like a good idea to make sure. "Pete, are you in here?" he asks the walls. "I won't bother you, I just need to see that you're still alive. Dumbledore's orders." In the silence, his swallow is deafening. His mind goes to the Death Eaters he saw down the block last week. If they found Peter, he's dead already, nothing anyone can do—Sirius always had to help him with protective spells—

He takes two long strides into the sitting room, trying to find signs of a disturbance. A scratch on the wall, a crooked picture, a mug on the coffee table. Nothing. He sees an open drawer and looks inside, but there's nothing helpful there. In fact, there's nothing in the drawer at all. And nothing on the shelves, either, or on the cloak-hooks by the door.

The harsh noise of Sirius's breathing stops as his lungs disintegrate, to be replaced by a flood of panic. "Peter?" he calls, one more time, just in case. He's out the door and on his bike before he inhales again, in the sky before he remembers to blink.

The wind tears at his face and his hands freeze on the handlebar, but his fear is a heat inside him. If Peter's not in his hiding place, he must have been captured, but there's no evidence of a struggle. And if he left on his own terms, knowing full well the responsibility of being Secret-Keeper, it must mean that he—

When he lands in Godric's Hollow, the stars are out. He runs up the road and around the corner, caution the last thing on his mind, and trips over his own feet. When he rights himself and looks up, he thinks he's on the wrong street for a moment, because this can't possibly be the house, not with the door hanging off its hinges, not with half the top floor _gone._

Sirius moves closer, no longer feeling the ground beneath his feet. The October leaves crackle as he steps on them, and the sound is like the fracturing of his thoughts. He touches the door; it lists aside and he falls to his knees and forward, straining down the hall. James is already cold, he has been lying here for at least an hour, and when Sirius turns him over, his glasses are cracked.

Sirius says things, words, he doesn't know what. He can't hear himself. A sound from upstairs breaks through the haze. _Lily,_ he thinks, but he doesn't know what to do with the body in his arms. The sound repeats and he closes James's eyes, replaces his glasses, and gets to his feet. He takes the stairs four at a time. Over the bannister he sees a flame—no, hair, red hair, fanned across the floor like roots.

He can't breathe. He can't see anything but her face. She was always laughing, but now she looks scared, frozen in fear. The sound comes again and his head jerks up, recognizing it for what it is—a baby, crying. His heart squeezes as he stumbles into the room and sees Harry screaming in the arms of a hulking figure.

For a moment, Sirius thinks he might explode, but then the man turns and blinks beetle-black eyes. "I thought yeh'd be here soon enough," Hagrid rumbles. "Got the message from Dumbledore, did yeh?"

Sirius shakes his head, drinking in the sight of Harry, alive, and calmer now that he's being held. There's a mark on his forehead, livid and jagged, a lightning scar.

Hagrid leads the way out of the house, and Sirius manages to follow without looking at their broken bodies on the carpet. The only escape from the pain is to think about where he will go next. He has got to do something with Harry, and the knowledge surfaces—he's his godfather, they can stay together, and Remus will help—oh, god, _Remus._ He lets out a ragged gasp and draws the cold air in again. "What message?"

Hagrid mops his eyes with a spotted handkerchief. "You-Know-Who found 'em," he says, "not more'n an hour ago." Harry starts whimpering and Hagrid holds him close like a secret until he quiets.

"Give Harry to me, Hagrid," Sirius rasps. The sound of his own voice surprises him. "I'm his godfather, I'll look after him."

Putting the handkerchief away, Hagrid puts a hand on his shoulder with the force of a falling boulder. "I'm sorry, lad. I'm ter take him to his aunt an' uncle's."

Sirius shoves the hand away, and realizes that his own is trembling. "They've never even met him," he says, balling his fingers into a fist to stop the shaking. He remembers James ranting about Lily's sister, remembers the fiasco at her wedding. "He knows _me,_ not them."

"Dumbledore's orders." Hagrid sniffs and looks at him with too much pity. "It's what's best fer him—"

"What will happen to him?" Sirius demands. "How long will he stay there? I need to be there for him, I—I don't have anything—" His throat closes up; staring at the house, all he sees is the stars shining through where the top floor used to be.

Hagrid squeezes his shoulder again. "Dumbledore will explain it all ter yeh later. I'm off ter meet him now, before we give Harry ter his family."

Sirius shakes his head. "I'm his family."

"Sirius." He looks up, and Hagrid is watching him still. "This is what Dumbledore wants. He's got ter stay with his blood. Yeh'll probably be able ter see him," he adds, "once things've calmed down a bit."

"Calmed down?"

"Well, You-Know Who's gone," Hagrid says. "That ought ter make things interesting for a spell."

Sirius blinks. _You-Know-Who's gone._ Underneath the weight on his ribcage, he feels something stirring. But there's still one thing he's got to do, before it's too late. "Take him," he says after a moment. "Bring him to Dumbledore, fine."

"I—what?" Hagrid looks confused.

Sirius waves a hand towards the end of the street. "You can use my bike, it's that way. I won't need it anymore." He's already turning away. The heat of his fear has transformed into an inferno. _Voldemort's gone._ His other hand is a fist, too. Hagrid says something to his back, but he leaves, the sound of the motorbike roaring into the sky.

He can hear his footsteps now, slapping the pavement. He's alive. Remus is alive. Harry is alive. But James, James is dead, and Lily is dead, and Sirius knows who's responsible. He remembers telling them, not a week ago—"Use Peter, not me. They won't go after him." Well, he thinks, and squeezes his eyes shut, he wasn't wrong. Of course Voldemort wouldn't hunt down his own man.

He Apparates back to the flat, but it's still deserted. The cottage next—Remus is in Scotland on a rare excursion for Mad-Eye, so Sirius lets himself in. He's smacked in the face with the smell, the scent of their life together, which he's never noticed before but which now has him leaning on the door for support. He should go to Remus, he should tell him what's happened, he has a right to know. But even now, the wariness of the last year sets his spine to tingling. He'll tell him later, he decides. He'll apologize, too. But for now—Peter.

Sirius didn't really expect him to come here, and he's right. Still, he searches every room. When he's satisfied that he's alone, he leaves, and the cottage stands empty. He checks half a dozen other places—back alleys in Glasgow, a specific bridge over the Thames—before resting on a street corner. Although he's nowhere near Canterbury's wizarding neighborhood, several owls are perched nearby, and many are flying overhead. It's only when the muggles start staring that he realizes it's dawn.

After half an hour of sitting on the corner, Sirius is jerked out of his stupor by a tiny man in a purple top hat bobbing excitedly before him. "What?"

"I didn't think I'd see Sirius Black here!" the man squeaks. "I thought you'd be celebrating!"

"Celebrating?" Sirius focuses enough to recognize Dedalus, and drops his head again.

"The fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" Dedalus grins. "We're having a party beneath St. Augustine's if you'd like to join us."

"I'd better not," Sirius tells the pavement.

"You're quite welcome to come," Dedalus assures him. After a moment of silence, he says, "If you change your mind, the offer stands. At a time like this, the more, the merrier! And bring your friend, too."

"My friend?"

Dedalus cocks his head to one side, and the top hat wobbles. "Pettigrew, of course. He was near the King's School not too long ago, according to Emmeline. I assumed you two were in the neighborhood together." He blinks when Sirius leaps to his feet. "Clearly, I—"

Sirius doesn't hear the rest of it as he runs. Muggles turn and stare, but he knows where he's going. At the last second, from the back of an alley, he sees a robe whip around a corner. "Peter!" he screams, and is rewarded with a second of hesitation. It's enough. By the time he emerges onto the street, Peter's wand is out, but they're too close for either of them to run.

Peter wears an expression of absolute terror. Sirius can only imagine what his own face looks like, as filled with rage as he is. "You piece of filth," he spits, and somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks that he sounds like his mother.

Peter blanches. "You—you—" He stumbles backwards a step, his wand still out. "Lily and James, Sirius! How could you?" The muggles are in a loose ring around them, watching, hypnotized. "You betrayed your best friends!" He looks beseechingly to the muggles. There are robed figures in the crowd, moving closer— "He sold his friends to the Dark Lord!"

Sirius's wand is in his hand, he can feel the wood thrumming with all his hatred, but then the world bursts like an overripe berry and he's flung backwards into a wall. For several moments he can do nothing but stare at the dusty morning sky, stunned. He thinks he sees shooting stars.

"Freeze!" booms a man's voice. There's a wand at his throat then, even as he's yanked to his feet, his hands bound by someone else he can't see. He stares at the scene before him—chalky rubble painted red, Peter nowhere in sight, a wizard reciting some sort of warrant. "Do you understand?"

Sirius blinks at him in complete incomprehension. All he understands is that two of his friends are dead, one will hate him forever, and one has destroyed everything. "No," he says. He might as well be honest about that. The wizard starts again, but the sounds still don't make any sense. Sirius stands in the fog of the last few hours and knows that, despite keeping a million secrets and driving away his only remaining friend, he's doomed. _I'm sorry, Remus,_ he thinks, but Remus will never know. And when he realizes that, something in his chest cracks in two, and he starts to laugh.


End file.
